


Those Who Don't Believe in Magic

by brieflybe



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Death Eaters, F/M, Jewish Identity, M/M, Mentions of Antisemitism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, mentions of hate-crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-08 12:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13458312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brieflybe/pseuds/brieflybe
Summary: Jason displays his first ever sign of magic at the age of nine and a half. It's the beginning of spring – the roses in the yard are in full bloom, the sun is bright but lacks warmth, and Jason's father lays a palm across his shoulder and informs him of his plans to divorce Jason's mother and fuck off with Whizzer Brown.Harry Potter AU.





	1. Chapter 1

Jason displays his first sign of magic at the age of nine and a half. It's the beginning of spring – the roses in the yard are in full bloom, the sun is bright but lacks warmth, and Jason's father lays a palm across his shoulder and informs him of his plans to divorce Jason's mother and fuck off with Whizzer Brown. Jason, who at the age of five insisted on playing Muggle Chess because the players in his magical set upset him, who preferred pictures that were still, who did not like the feeling of being watched, blew apart the door of the broom closet. The irony, as it were, was lost on him.

*

Sometimes, Marvin would be watching his son, considering how fathering a Squib might be worst than fathering a queer, and how he had outdone his own father, in a way. It wasn't that Jason wasn't bright. It's that he's working with all the wrong muscles – eyes narrowed, fists clenched, mind – moving, thinking, planning. Where a normal child would react with magic, he'd react with silence. Marvin's mother had offered a specialist, and Marvin's wife had threatened with divorce, and Jason was staring at one of the portraits hanging at the living-room, a gloomy sketch of Marvin's great-grandfather, who'd berate Jason every time he seemed like he was going to cry. And so Marvin went to a specialist instead, because somebody had to. Marvin found a mind-healer, and then he found his way into a bar, and then he found his way to a man, and then he misplaced his way home.

Marvin's son, it turns out, is not a Squib, just a late bloomer – there are pieces of wood and spilled cleaning products all over the floor, the wall, the ceiling. Marvin, who thought he could not spend another minute with a wife that seemed to have misplaced her wand, with a son who seemed to have taken Marvin's money and peace of mind and blood, but not his heritage, who was a promise that left him aching, had found himself aching still. He watched his son, who finally had unclenched his feast to expose some magic in the tips of his fingers, and he promised to pay for the broken property. And he left.

*

Here's a riddle: Where will a Closeted Queer Wizard feel safest to be his authentic queer self? Soיo. Fucking Muggle Soho, with its tinted windows and its strip-bars and the door signs concerning the absence of prostitutes. The British are all very polite, until you're queer, which is when they'll politely cut your dick off and throw you in an ally to bleed, but Marvin can take Muggles, at least. He can make Muggles forget him. He can disappear.

So of course, his third time visiting the pub, hands clammy and body itching, aching, desperate for a guy to – but can't find anyone specific he'd actually let – Whizzer Brown approaches Marvin's stall, lays a hand on Marvin's thigh and says: "Is that a wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" His lips are centimeters away from Marvin's ear, and Marvin would say that he's overplaying it, just a bit, except that even in the dim light of the bar the guy is beautiful, except that his smile is sardonic and mean and somehow inviting, still, and Marvin suddenly feels weak in the knees. Except that – well, it is a wand in Marvin's pocket. So there's that.

"What?" Is what he manages to say.

"Your wand is sticking out the pocket of your jeans, moron." And when Marvin doesn't respond, he continues: "You know, your actual wand?" and he sits himself down next to Marvin. The man rolls his eyes at him. "Whizzer Brown." He reaches out a hand. When Marvin doesn't move, he simply touches Marvin's palm with his fingers, briefly, before pulling back.

"You're a Whizzer – Ah, I mean," he clears his throat. "You're a wizard."

Whizzer doesn't laugh at him. He mostly seems pleased with himself, like a kid winning a game of cards. He mostly just laughs because his smile is pretty, and he's very much aware. "Oh, you think you're the first queer to discover muggle London?" he raises an eyebrow. "There aren't enough queer wizards in this city to last me a week." He's staring, eyes searching Marvin for – something. A trap, maybe. Trick or treat, you get blown or bashed in an ally. Marvin has done neither, ever, in his life. "But you're a welcome addition." He then stares Marvin, up and down, slowly, just looking. Just –

"Marvin," Marvin finally tells him. He had a pseudonym in place for the evening. He's forgotten what it was.   

When Marvin was a child, he'd break things. Not with his hands, but with his mind. He wasn't allowed a wand, but stress, as a conductor of violence, was just as efficient. Marvin attracted stress. He attracted rage. Home appliances would crack, then. Books would head-dive off of shelves. The family owl would scream right along side him. Marvin would break things at home, and he'd break thing at stranger's. And while receiving a wand and receiving a punishment and receiving the full brunt of his mother's hatred had tamed that, through the years, a part of him still expects, whenever, wherever, with emotion running wild, when he feels elated, when he feels unsafe, that he'd –

But nothing of the sort happens when Whizzer disregards Marvin's offered hand and leans in to kiss him. That is, as collateral damage goes, nothing breaks but Marvin's marriage, and to the untrained eye, that still appears to be a result of Whizzer Brown's form of magic, no his.

There is a certain feeling of power that Marvin can't ignore, when Whizzer takes Marvin's hand and lead him to a dingy bathroom stall, take Marvin's hand and apparates them into a dingy Soho apartment (who, Marvin will later discover, is pretty much a ten-minute-walk from the bar), a feeling of helplessness, even as he presses his lips against Whizzer and pins him to the wall, even as Whizzer goes down on his knees. His wand falls to the floor along with his trousers, and Marvin, at the mercy of Whizzer's tongue and mouth and teeth, had never felt its absence less, in his life.  

*

Falling for Whizzer Brown is frankly a relief. Sure, it's a personal disaster as well, the end of a family and the end of his self-respect and the end of him. But there is at last a feeling of fulfilled expectations, of something living up to his promise. Sex, that is. And want. Sleeping next to another human being without wishing he would leave. Allowing another human being to touch him without wishing that he'd stop.  At the very least, it's a valid reason to get up in the morning. He likes that Whizzer is a man. He likes that Whizzer is a drop-out, so even if he was a woman, he wouldn't be good enough for Marvin to marry. He likes Whizzer's stupid collection of photos, people moving, jerking around, piled on top of each other like an orgy. He liked it when Whizzer had smiled and said: "Ravenclaw, really?" before stepping closer, lifting his hands to fix Marvin's collar, leaving them laying there. "You'd look good in blue."  The tie was red. But they're not in Hogwarts anymore, and nobody ever thought Marvin would make a decent Gryffindor, either way.

*

The third time they meet, Marvin is at his office, sitting by his desk, staring at paperwork, when his pager vibrates where it rests near his pocket ("It's not like a muggle pager," he had told Whizzer, "if you have the keys, you could write me a massage on literally anything." And so Whizzer asked for the keys, then proceeded to write "Marvin sucks dick" on Marvin's bicep with a quill. Whatever.).

The first massage reads: "I need you to come and get me off." Which, okay. But the rest of the massages explain: "No, I mean it, I'm currently held in custody by one of your stupid inspectors for breaking the Stupid Secrecy Covenant, and I can't afford the criminal record or the fine, so come and get me the fuck out of here."

Marvin has mountains of paper work, and a law-abiding wife and kid waiting for him at home. He has work acquaintances asking of he wants to join them for a drink, and business connections to preserve and to build. He's got a good life, that are filled to the brim with opportunities. Except that he likes that Whizzer Brown had told Marvin he's department is literally the stupidest one in all government, even counting that muggles have a ministery responsible for religion, and then got arrested by that exact same department. 

 Thankfully, he finds Whizzer in Hyde Park, surrounded by two ministry inspectors and a bunch of squirrels. Apart from Marvin's sanity, nothing seems to be truly damaged. There a bumble bee humming near Whizzer's head, so Marvin freezes it, then steps forward, making his presence known.   

Whizzer raises an eyebrow. "Stupefying a bee? Really?" His hair is a bit on the wild side, and there are bags under his eyes. His robs are rumpled, torn in a few places, and Marvin had never seen him wear wizard garments before. He looks good. He always does.   

"I'm allergic," Marvin responds easily.

Charles, the clerk currently blocking Whizzer's path, asks: "Really?"

And Marvin says, "No."

Whizzer's mouth twitch with the beginning of a smile. Making Whizzer Brown laugh raises the possibility that there is, in fact, such a thing as a win-win situation. Whizzer Brown raises the possibility that Marvin could get something he wants, and still want it. Marvin never had to maintain anything of consequence before.

"Come on," he turns to the second inspector, who in Marvin's head is also named Charles. "He's a first offender, isn't he? Let him go with a fine."

Whizzer makes a sound of outrage. They all ignore him, including the squirrels.

"He's actually not a first offende –"

"Look," Marvin quickly cuts him off. He doesn't have time for this. He has a family waiting for him at home. He has work waiting for him at the office. He has -  "he's a distant relative. Please just do me this favor. I promise this won't happen again." Whizzer sniggers, then. At the word relative.  

Charles No. 2 shakes his head, bewildered. "He is? I don't see it."

Whizzer nods solemnly. "I'm his sister."

Charles No. 2 chokes on air.

"Okay, that's enough." While the situation is somewhat amusing, there is no point in letting Whizzer ruin Marvin's none-existent career for sheer entertainment purposes. "I'm taking him away. Just send the fine to my office, I'll make sure it's paid. Goodbye now."

He then reaches out, grabs Whizzer's arm, and apparates them both away.

*

"Obviously," Whizzer tells him, stroking absently at Marvin's hair, "you're paying the fine."

Marvin snorts. "Obviously." Then, "I mean, if I knew that I was dating a superhero, I'd have tried to make a better impression, when we first met."

Whizzer rolls his eyes, his fingers tugging slightly at Marvin's hair, before smoothing it back down. Whizzer's mattress is so shitty, that Marvin is tempted to just buy him a new one. But that seems like enabling. Like, here, Whizzer, a way for you to have a comfortable queer sex with stranger that are not me in the privacy of your own home. Enjoy. Marvin was a firm believer in selective charity. That is, he believed in presents. He believed in contracts. "I mean, that guy was about to be arrested for sucking my dick, something had to be done."

Marvin rolls his eyes. Whizzer is Marvin's worst nightmare, personalized. Marvin is fucking his worst nightmare. "You were about to be arrested, also."

Whizzer shrugs. "Well, sure. But I could have run away. He couldn't."

"You were arrested for public indecency, anyway." Everything about Whizzer was pretty much the definition of public indecency. He was a queer, American eyesore, somehow thrown into the midst of bloody London.

It was Whizzer's turn to snort. "Sure, and Oscar Wild was just arrested for Blasphemy –"

"Whizzer, I swear to God – " He ran's his own hand through his hair, batting Whizzer's away, then lays it briefly over his eyes. Marvin is not Whizzer Brown. Marvin is simply sleeping with Whizzer Brown. Whizzer's bad luck is not Marvin's. Whizzer's sins are his own. "That was just asking for troubles, is all." He concedes. Neither of them is more plaint after sex. It's mostly that they share a bed, and their limb. Sometimes a pillow. A headspace. Mostly, aggression means having to move.

"Well, I'm in a position to ask for troubles." Whizzer asserts, voice stiff, "I'm also in a position to get people out of them. So why shouldn't I?"

"Great." Marvin deadpans. "You can join those nut-jobs apparting people out of East Berlin, then. Cause an international incident. Really make a scene." Marvin lays his palm on Whizzer's chest, spreads out his fingers. "I mean, look at you, all privileged, in this matchbox of an apartment, after being arrested twice in the span of ten minutes by two different bodies of authorities. You truly are communism's greatest threat."

"Agh," is Whizzer's response, which is eloquent, in a way. _You bore me, Marvin. Nobody cares, Marvin._ For all intents and purposes, Marvin should be weary of his own influence, of the way it might get Whizzer into bed, except that's not what it was. It was more like Whizzer, getting laid with people who can also be of use to him, the way people would shop at the supermarket closest to their workplace. It was insane, that Marvin was the one feeling used in the end. It was a greater trick than any magic either of them could hope to achieve.

"Exactly right," Marvin offers. "I stand corrected." 

"Whatever," is what Whizzer has to say next. "I'm not going to let a person who was literally shipped off to the UK to help keep the wizarding world in the closet to lecture me about social activism."

Marvin abruptly sits up, back against the wall, looking down at Whizzer and sputtering indignantly. "Excuse me?" he bites out. "Are you really making me lecture you about the importance of the International Statute of Secrecy while we're both naked –"

"Oh my God, Marvin, it was a fucking joke." Whizzer's distain is now a force, lowering Oxygen levels, lowering room temperature. "About how you preach for repression in all aspects of your life. It's funny because you're ruining the lives of your family but also the lives of the muggles you won't let wizards protect, but then turn to sleep with Muggles in Soho because this is where you can feel safe and any social revolution that ever occurred came from them. See? It's hilarious. Or am I too dumb for you to understand my sense of humor, Marvin?"

Marvin simply stares at him.

"Merlin," Whizzer mutters. "I'm not trying to turn your life around, Marv." He finally says, after composing himself. His voice is sweet. Marvin doesn’t buy it. "I just want to have some fun."

Marvin gather his clothes, clumsily putting himself back together, and apparates out of there. 

*

All things equal, Marvin would have gone to Hogwarts, had he been given a choice. He went to Hogwarts anyway, true, but that was not a choice, that was an exorcism – of a house, that is, of a community, from the presence of an Eleven year old child who was just about to claw his freakin' eyes out. Marvin was a troubled child in ways that were beyond his parents, and beyond their Rabbi, and beyond the goddamn ocean. Better he creates a scandal far away. Better for Dumbledore to deal with him.

The United States was big enough, and the Jewish community small enough, and the magical community that much smaller, the magical-Jewish community – whatever. Everything was vulnerable enough for Marvin to set them all aflame. Troubled kid. Sadistic kid. Violent Kid. Setting his Chess pieces against each other like toy soldiers, watching them tearing each other apart, over and over and over again. Setting inflammable property on fire. Tearing to shreds items that were meant to be unbreakable. Stories about him were whispered throughout the neighborhood. In time, Marvin will tell Whizzer about this, and Whizzer, in turn, will say: "Aw, you were a creepy horror movie child. That's adorable." Which, whatever. Marvin never grew up to be a Creepy-Horror-Movie-Adult, thankfully, but the child is in there, is the thing. He's stretched thin across Marvin's adult limbs, smothered to silence by Marvin's adult tie, blocked and channeled through Marvin's wand. But he's there, throwing tantrums. He's there, setting chess pieces against each other. He's there, tearing Marvin's family apart.  

*

Marvin is not so self-absorbed he doesn't realize that taking his son to a fun day around the city is not supposed to feel like a chore. He is self-absorbed enough to decide, however, that his son is not supposed to dislike him as much as he clearly does. So, there you go. It's vaguely unpleasant, is the thing, in a way Marvin had never quite gotten used to, hoping for appreciation, receiving only disapproval in return. He feels small, at times, and like he's spending the day with his mother, and that can't be right. Isn't it? His son making him feel like a child. His son, leading him down the busy streets of Muggle London, going on about Sherlock Holmes as if it was a real person.

When they reach Diagon Ally, Jason tells him: "I don't want to." As if the number one cause of casualties amongst ten-year-olds was a shopping trip that might involve a new Astronomy Globe, or Merlin's Beard, ice cream.  

"Well," Marvin reproaches, in a tone mostly reserved for Trina. It says: What _Do you want from me?_ Or more accurately: _What else could you possibly want from me?_ Or, more to the point: _Can't we just call it a day?_ "What is it that you would prefer to be doing, son?"

Jason gives him an appraising look, one that, if Marvin didn't know any better, would have reminded him of Whizzer. It says: _How far can I push?_ "I want to see the Natural Museum," he spits out, challenge in his eyes. As if every father's worst nightmare lays in exhibits concerning Muggles and their digging and their science and the over complicated ways in which they get to fly.

"It's the Natural History Museum." He corrects.

Silence.

Marvin shrugs. "Fine."

Jason stares at him.

Marvin stares right back.

"Fine."

And so they go.

 

Marvin's job means he always has some paper money in his pockets. He's an American, at his core, a Jew, inside and out, though he does not excel at either of those legacies, and so he's wired to roll his eyes at the goddamn queen. His son appears to be entranced, by dinosaurs and space and things that are the past and things that are extinct and things that claim to be the future. What can one say to deter a child from interest in science? _Look at a crystal ball instead, Jason. Look at the stars, Jason. Isn't Uranus especially bright tonight, Jason._ Marvin had left Hogwarts knowing next to nothing about anything not concerning himself, which suited him fine. But he's aware of his own blind spots. Apparation or not, he's aware that the world is too incredibly big. Jason, thinking he was a Squib, through the years, had showed unhealthy amount of interest in everything that was – still. When he was four, the violence occurring on the battle field of Marvin's Chess Set had made him cry, and so Marvin had bought him one that did not move. For the next six years, when Jason failed to move even a goddamn feather, he'd always wonder if this was his fault. Now, though – Jason was a wizard, and Jason was a smart kid. Jason had showed an exceptional ability to cause harm with his mind, and so knowledge was harmless to him.

Marvin likes that Jason is smart, he likes that Jason is like him. He likes, in a religion that does not allow the making of any graven image, the shaping of a child, running around the world like the personification of Marvin's hubris. He likes the pictures scattered around Whizzer's horrible, horrible apartment, smiling and scowling and leering. Once, Whizzer had made a portrait of a middle-aged woman, person-like and talking, who began screaming and shrieking about sodomy as Marvin stopped by. Love the sin, hate the sinner – that was Marvin's thing, that was his philosophy. Guilt was a moving force. Self-hatred was a moving force. He's been running for years.

Jason, in turn, is wide eyed and smug. Held at arm's length from all thing muggle for years (it's best not to tempt fate, best not to provide the kid with alternatives), he was curious partly out of spite. He was interested in airplanes, and in Doctors. He had wanted them to own a car. Now, standing in the enormous shadow of a reconstructed T-Rex, Marvin is inexplicably afraid for him. His kid, merging with the dark corners of the world. His kid, about to be attacked by a skeleton of a fireless dragon. It takes his breath away. It takes his voice away. They leave the museum in silence, Jason skimming through the gift shop as if he's disinterested. Marvin buys a book concerning Global Warming and how the world is coming to an end, to give Whizzer as a present. "It made me think of you," he'll say. The picture on the cover show icebergs that are supposedly melting.

"Is it too late for me to get my Hogwarts letter?" Jason's voice is sharp. "I just mean, what would happen if –" he cuts himself off, like he's pissed at himself for even asking. He's avoided asking for ten and a half years. He's avoided brooms, and the family owl, Lou.

"You're a magician," Marvin tells him evenly. "You'll get in."

Jason bites his lower lip.

"Look, I've got a friend in the Ministry of Education. I asked him to – anyway." Marvin shakes his head. "You're on the list."

"Oh," is all Jason says.

Marvin manages a smile. "Nothing to worry about."

"But what would have happened?" he insists.

Marvin can feel a headache forming, somewhere in the space behind his eyes. They have not been productive, Trina and him. They've been praying. They've been fighting. They've been resigned. They would have had to meet with the ministry, explain the situation, show medical proof for Jason's lack of magic. A special permission is needed for integration within the muggle world, a regulation formed after a dimwitted witch from Whales had tried to run for Prime Minister, faking an ID, faking ballots, causing votes to multiply. There are rules now. One may not take over the unsuspecting Muggle world using magic. A wizard is not allowed to so much as provide a transcribing service to a Muggle without filling seventeen different forms. There are sanctions. There is a stigma. Jason would not have needed witchcraft to take over the world, however. Marvin is pretty sure. Jason is a menace. Jason is too smart for his own good. There is a bruise in the shape of him near Marvin's lungs that have nothing to do with magic. "You'd go to Muggle school," he tells him. "You'll become Prime Minister." His smile is thin. "Not necessarily in that order."    

Jason shakes his head, letting a key chain that appears to look like a spaceship fall back to its container. "Whatever. I want to go home."

"Do you want to get some ice cream?"

"I want to go home."

"So, no ice cream?" he rolls his eyes. _Spend sometimes with your son, Marvin. Let him be a kid, Marvin._ This is no kid. This is a sullen old man in regression. This is – whatever. He is not having fun. There is no fun to be had with parents. Marvin's ex-wife and son don't love him, they're rejected by him, and Marvin is – well, he's rejected too, though he's not sure by whom, if it's even a person. It is what it is. Society is built out of fear, and you're promised love in return to following the rules, but there is no real way to provide Marvin with love, nor is there a way to make Marvin love anyone. And this, right there, is what Whizzer Brown sounds like. This is who Marvin is reject by. Rejected with. "You know," he says casually, "You'll miss the possibility to wander when you'll go to school."

Jason snorts, and it would be hurtful, except that Jason feels more hurt than Marvin is, for some reason.

While at school, Marvin hadn't missed anything, either.

So he deposits his son home safely, and leaves to wander by himself, waiting for Whizzer to find him.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You were worried." Marvin observes. "You sent the ghost after me."

 

Marvin shows his first signs of magic at the age of three. He's sobbing, willing himself out of a crib that feels too small, out of a room that feels suffocating, and suddenly, there is no crib to speak of. He's on the floor, a sharp pain pulsing through his hand, where it was cut from a broken piece of wood, and he's screaming, and screaming, and screaming, until his voice is gone. And so the door goes down as well. That's when Marvin's mother wakes up from her potion-induced sleep. She isn't frazzled by the mess. She does not dress Marvin's wounds herself. She holds him to her chest and steps into the fire, and Marvin buries his head in the crook of her neck and thinks about how the flames aren't red anymore. When they're at the healer's clinic, mother's rob is stained with blood. The healer is nice to him. Mental treatment is recommended. Marvin's magic is discussed at length. On the way home, mother holds Marvin's fingers between her own, and says: "Well, you're very strong, aren't you?" and Marvin spends the next thirty years looking for that certain tone of voice.

* 

It's not that he hates Whizzer's friends – it's mostly that he's not sure if he has any, or if he slept with them, or if his just befriending the worst people in the world to get on Marvin's nerves. Right now, he's pressed between Whizzer and one of Whizzer's human disasters, the one that cries, not the one that's been hospitalized, or are they the same guy – anyway, he's crying right now, sort of, over some guy named Robert, and it's like this is all he has – the fact that Robert had him, the fact that Robert left him – this is all he is. Marvin does not want to sit next to him. Whizzer, drama-free Whizzer, do-what-you-want-with-your-wife-what-do-I-care Whizzer, is doing this to him on purpose. 'Would you prefer me like that, Marvin? That's not sexy, Marvin.' Except that Whizzer is being a dick, and that's not attractive either. Except he's missing the point.

"All I'm saying," says – Ethan, who has his hand wrapped around – Josh, right, and they always seem as is they have it all figured out, as if they solved romantic love and its mysteries for all humanity, hetros and queers alike, and you know what, it is that Marvin hates Whizzer's friends. They suck. "All I'm saying," he repeats, as if his all-encompassing statements about love could be constrained, "Is that while I understand the fantasy of dating a married man," he did not understand the fantasy of dating a married man, "It's never worth it. It always ends badly for someone, you know?"

Whizzer snorts.

Marvin… says nothing.

"I mean sure, you want someone to love you so much he'll leave everything that's considered good in the world to be with you, but –" he bites his lower lip, thinking. "One rarely loves a person that much." He then lays his palm over Josh's, as if saying, I do love you that much. They can both go die somewhere, to be honest.

Whizzer rolls his eyes aggressively, at this point. "I think it's more along the lines of – if you give him sex, and his wife gives him social standing, and none of you can give him both, why would he fucking leave?"

Whizzer was a poet. "I don't know, Whizzer," says Marvin dryly, "Why would he?" That's the beauty of it, that Whizzer doesn't know. That Whizzer had cultivated his independence like a lover and had never asked Marvin for anything but money and has somehow ended up with Marvin anyway.

Robert's eyes widen. "Oh yeah! Marvin had left his wife for Whizzer, right?"

"No," says Whizzer.

"Bite me." Marvin replies. Because of course he had – of course, but that's his private business. Whizzer, who does not accept love confession, does not recognize guilt, who's nothing but irritated and/or smug, had once told him: "correlation is not causation, Marvin, you would have left your goddamn wife either way." Another time, he had said: "You know, for someone who's left a wife and a son for me you sure don't seem to care about my well-being all that much." Whizzer doesn’t accept love confession, but he does accept credit cards, and so Marvin gave him one. Whatever. "I did leave her for you, Whizzer, you know I fucking did."

"I never asked you too," Whizzer claims, voice casual, as if he has the argument memorized, as if he's reading lines.

"I never said you did."

Whizzer rolls his eyes, his mouth twisting. "So what, it was a surprise? You thought, oh, I'll get Whizzer a divorce for Christmas, he always told me he'd wanted one!"     

Marvin is smiling right back. "I'm Jewish, I got you nothing for Christmas – " He rans a hand through his hair. Robert is staring at them, wide eyed, and Marvin realizes that for the very first time, Whizzer is the odd one out between them, all this strange, pathetic men, looking for the love that dare not speak its name. Marvin is able to admit feelings, at least. He's able to ask. Whizzer keeps acting as if Marvin had messed up. As if he's somehow still faking it. But Marvin is doing fine. Whizzer is at fault, here. Whizzer is letting him down. "You do not," he says slowly, "have a wife, or a kid. You don't –" he swallows. "This isn't like breaking a vase, you're tearing your child's life apart, Whizzer. You don't just do that, for nothing."

Josh is looking at him with something akin to pity. Marvin considers an Unforgivable curse. He considers inflicting deep, internal pain. "Your truth is not nothing, Marv."

Surprisingly, Whizzer is the one who protests, somewhere besides him. "Don't call him Marv," he orders sharply, "like you've been sucking his dick or something."

Marvin snorts. Marvin was a Wizard, and a Jew, and he was Queer, probably, most definitely, but what of it. Who's to say that dying alone in a ditch because a so-called death eater wannabe has found you leaving a certain bar is better than dying closeted and unhappy in the comfort of your own bed with the wife you resent for not being someone you could be attracted too? Marvin, as it were, had left home for a purpose, not a self-improvement project. Happiness is what happens when you get the things you want. Marvin wants Whizzer. He wants not to touch a woman ever again, Trina specifically. He wants peace. And it's the positive form of want you take action for.

Robert rolls his eyes. "Maybe we have been sucking his dick."

This is Marvin's turn to roll his eyes. "Well, if I'm not aware of that happening you must not be doing a very good job." Whizzer's friends are fond of Marvin in a shallow, uninformed way. Marvin in handsome enough to justify causing pain, and has cut off enough of his family to create an illusion of personal growth. Whizzer, who will never share with any of them any hardship that might suggest a different perspective, is in constant outrage by their approval. 

"Family," Marvin says slowly, thinking, hey, he could help the guy out. "Is a social construct that has proven himself, and is therefore worth preserving. I intend to work on preserving it even after the divorce his final." And then, because he's coming of as too much of a Tory, he adds, "You can't assume my kid is meaningless just because you don't have one. I'm the only person he ever listens too - You don't get to be a shitty parent just because –" he stops short, turns to Whizzer. His eyes are saying: _don't expose me._ Whizzer's eyes are saying: _Sorry, were you talking?_

 "You think closeted men are complicated?" Whizzer turns to Robert, "Just wait until they leave their wives for you. It's better when their compulsive guilt extends to you as well. And someone else can cook for them."

Something constricts in Marvin's chest. His lungs turn to stone. "Well fuck you too, Whizzer." He says, as calm as he can manage under the circumstance. "Nobody is making you stay." And true to his statement, Marvin leaves.

 

Marvin reaching out to Mendel was his own failure, really. Muggle-born, Jewish, formerly Orthodox, Mendel was the nightmare of every Jewish mother sending her kid to learn magic, play God. Mendel came out the other side of his seven years in Ilvermorny both an Atheist and an Outcast. He excels in Legilimency but fail so utterly at humans, and since Marvin does not allow Mendel to read him, ever, the effectivity of his treatment could be questioned. Marvin doesn’t question it.

William, a ghost hanging about him and Whizzer's area in SoHo, had told Marvin that in the old days, Occlumency was a must for every wizard who was queer. Marvin had known this already. Marvin had taught himself. Marvin had three layers of protection over his mind at every single moment, and some days, it presses so hard over his thoughts he can barely bring himself to speak.

So Mendel asks, "Do you love him?"

And Marvin closes himself off.

A year before, Mendel had said, "Is there something you need to tell me?"

And Marvin had said: "Fuck no." Then, he'd said: "I'm attracted to men."

And Mendel had said: "Oh, cool." Then, in response to Marvin's raised eyebrow: "It was either this or communism, ya know?"

At the present, Mendel asks: "Do you need him?"

And Marvin is not even present anymore.

It should not be a problem. Mendel is mostly judgement free, because he's alone and therefore has no ground to stand on.

Marvin needs: a wand, a family, a career. Food on the table and a roof over his head. A man, pinning him down, kissing along his neck and chest, waiting for him to come home from work, telling him that he –

"Sort of," Marvin says sharply. "I sort of love him."

It's humiliating, loving someone who doesn't love you back. It's losing a game the other one is not even playing. This is what breaks people. Marvin did not mean to do this. As he stepped into Whizzer Brown's apartment, that first time, he was not sure he was capable of loving anyone.

William the ghost got his head bushed in protecting his boyfriend in some dark ally. All five people involved possessed wands, but he still got his head bashed in. His boyfriend had died after him, and chose to move on. This is how it works, when men love each other. This is what it comes down to.   

Marvin will not be the one left behind. And he will not be the woman. Searching in his soul for other roles, there is very little left to play with.  

 

Death finds him at work, of all places. Well, work is strong word for what's happening, since Death Eaters are not his goddamn job, he's not a goddamn Auror, but the Muggles that were slaughtered were not murdered neatly, this death was of the messy kind, like a dog, tearing a child's doll apart with his teeth. Marvin has some Muggles to Obliviate, evidence to vanish, a magical community to shove right back into its rabbit hole. Blood is smudging the tips of his fingers, like ink, and he feels guilty, damned, though he's not sure of what. He's never the one to hurt anyone, but he always feels like a potential victim. He always feels like part of the problem. Hate crimes leave him empty, chilled. The land of Europe is a battlefield soaked with the blood of Marvin's people. He sees ghosts everywhere.

The crime scene is not Marvin and Whizzer's Bar, but a street, a block of buildings stripped out of their tenants and left hallow, internal organs bloody, scattered outside. William finds him anyway, misty and floating, bereft. He always seemed to have known the dead. They always seem to leave him (we do not let ourselves stay, be die like men, we fucking leave). "Whizzer is looking for you," he whispers. He's too close, and all Marvin feels is the cold, wet, weight of him. People like Marvin cannot stay in a world in which they're unable to hold objects. People like William were caught in the cracks of the sidewalk against which they fell. They were called into to duty by the sounds of their own screams.

"I'm working," Marvin dismisses, a smile tugging at his lips. "You know how I'm supposed to erase any magical evidence from the scene?" he adds, as an afterthought.

"Not really," William shrugs.

"The presence of a ghost is not helping the matter." A trail of silvery blood is running down his head, down his arms, down his thighs. He's an eternal fountain of human injustice. He's saved Marvin's life, like, twice.

"This is not going away," William says quietly, then gestures towards the dark mark, shining green light in the sky like a different sort of planet.

This is Marvin's turn to shrug. This is Europe, and Jews are born with a wound in their gut that says, remember, remember. This is Europe, where a Muggle is now hanging from a street lamp. Whizzer is sometimes speaking about running to the States, but Marvin, who was shipped off as an act of mercy, cannot go back, no matter how big the States is. The world is extremely small for people like him. He's still illegal in New York. He's still illegal in the eyes of his parents. Muggle Courts matter, for people like Marvin. "No comment," he replies drily. "For further information you my call our flue emergency hotline, where – "

"Oh, fuck off. Didn't Whizzer fuck that out of ya?"

"What?"

William gestures to encapsulate Marvin's tired, cloak wearing, unwashed form.

Marvin bites at his lower lip. Whatever. "Tell him I'll see him at his apartment. Now let me do my job, please."

William is gone. That's when there's a loud noise that isn't thunder, followed by a light that's not a lightning, followed by screams that aren't entirely human anymore. This isn't Marvin's job. He lifts his wand like a shield. He wishes he'd told Whizzer something else. He's bleeding, from somewhere. There are flashes of Aurors, all around him, and they yell, "Get the fuck out". Marvin apparates the fuck out. He was never a soldier.  

 

He finds himself at Whizzer's doorstep, like he's fucking whipped.

The man is probably not even around, because he never is. Heterosexuals have homes where they fit into something bigger than themselves. Homosexuals have apartments where they hopefully don't fucking freeze to death, where they screw and live and die alone. Marvin was always convinced that deep down, Whizzer knows what's coming for him. That in a way, he's just like Marvin, refusing to serve as a sitting duck.

Marvin is not the type to wait at people's doorsteps. Marvin is not the type to pine. When people like Marvin feel death reaching for them, unexpectedly, they focus on themselves, knowing they have a will to handle the rest of it. People like Marvin do not have regrets. They do not have a –

Whizzer opens the door.

 

"You're in a state," Whizzer murmurs, reaching out to clean the gush pulsing on Marvin's side. "Don't you have a boring desk job?" He doesn't seem all that worried – more like… carefully sympathetic. Marvin is obviously alive, and Whizzer was never the type to fear retroactively, unlike Marvin, who still sometimes wakes up from under Whizzer's arms and blankets, heart hammering in his chest, thinking he'd forgotten to return home to his wife.

"I do have a boring desk job," Marvin agrees, tired and plaint. "I feel cheated."

Whizzer mouth turns upward in a hint of a smile. "Gosh, me too. If I wanted a guy who'll show up bleeding…" he trails of. Whizzer had assumed, maybe unconsciously, that Marvin was going to change. Out of the house. Out of the closet. He did not expect Marvin to maintain ties to his previous life, since nobody he knew ever had. He didn't understand Marvin. He mostly didn't understand Trina, her devotion, her unwillingness to raise their child alone. He did not expect Marvin to bring the suburbs into his life, is the thing. He did not expect inquiring about Marvin's tough day at the office.

"You were worried." Marvin observes. "You sent the ghost after me."

Whizzer shrugs. "I needed cash." A bit. "Plus, I was horny."

Marvin, too bruised and beaten and battered to get it up, raises his empty hands in surrender. "Lost my wallet." Sometimes, he wishes his money would be gone, just to see if Whizzer would stay. He wishes he was sick, so that Whizzer would take care of him. He wishes he was gone, so that Whizzer will miss him. When Marvin was seven, he read all about Tom Sawyer, who was a Muggle, and a prat. He'd wanted to show up at his own funeral ever since.   

"Oh well," replies Whizzer dryly, "Then get the fuck out." Marvin is shirtless and bleeding in a way that's distinctly unattractive – messy, non-human colors such as yellow and purple and blue paint art that's not human shaped. Marvin has spent some good thirty years of his life, fighting the possibility of becoming less than himself. Right now, spent, nodding his head into Whizzer's shoulder, gently, as if Whizzer won't notice, he can scarcely remember what was the point.

"In a minute," Marvin mumbles, as Whizzer wraps a carful arm around Marvin's shoulders. Whizzer doesn’t get it, how Marvin wishes to be the reason Whizzer's sad, since he can never be the reason Whizzer is happy.

Whizzer presses his lips to the top of Marvin's head, and Marvin wishes he'd always loved him, throughout his entire life, so everything he'd ever done could be touched by that one thing. He wishes they were both ghost, untouchable and freezing, fingers sipping into one another's, chests fused together, sharing their lack of air.

Then Whizzer tells him: "Let's get you into bed," and those thought are lost in the way Whizzer is carrying him away, firm and solid, Marvin's pager hidden safely in the pocket of his jeans so that Marvin won't know he's being called back in. He stumbles, and curses, and caught by Whizzer's arm circling his stomach, right where everything hurts. When he falls, it's into a dark, dreamless sleep. Whizzer is next to him, keeping vigil, running a hand through his hair, Marvin's nose and forehead pressed against his chest, except Marvin doesn't know who that is.

When he wakes up, they're apart, and Marvin, his body throbbing, his pager in pieces on the floor, feels like himself again.


	3. Chapter 3

Marvin takes the day off, allows himself to be swallowed whole by the space of Whizzer's horrible, horrible bed. Whizzer, before leaving for a work-related-appointment, leaves him a copy of the Daily Prophet, main head-line: _He Who Must Not Be Named attacks the Love Who Dares Not Speak its Name_. Beneath – a photo, the street is in tatters, the Dark Mark, shining pale and tacky and sharp from the night sky. He can feel a headache forming, on top of everything else.

Trina would have stayed with him. That is, Trina would have cooked, she would have hovered, she would have stayed home from work and she'd be caring and she'd cry, because he might have died. Marvin would have taken her tears like a trump card, her food – as an offering, and then he'd spend the day subjected to the clicking of her heels, dreading the warmth of her hand, dreading her voice, on the phone. He'd be upset by her absence. Upon her return, he'd wish she would leave. He knows this. He'd been sick before.

Once, Whizzer had told him: "Every insulting thing Oscar Wild had ever written had clearly been about you." This is what he feels like, right now, left to his own devices in Whizzer's apartment – as if he's worse than he has a right to be, as if there could be a better version of him, somewhere, but there actually isn't any. He's incredibly angry, then. About mediocre parents. About homosexuality. About not having breakfast made for him. He used to apparate by mistake, when he was younger. He'd wish to be a different person, and end up in a different place. In his mind, his wedding band was a Portkey. His child was the breaks.

He wishes, inexplicably, that his child would be here. He hurts everywhere. When he drags himself to the sofa and falls into some odd, twisted, form of sleep, it's mostly by mistake.

 

In his dream, he's a Muggle. You can tell because he has a wand clutched between his fingers but he can't recall any spells, and it's not his wand, he doesn't think, he doesn't remember ever using it, he can't remember ever shopping at Olivander's or how old is he or who his parents are. He's at work, that is, he's sitting by his desk, combing his mind looking for any word who can shift reality, but all he ever comes up with is: "I want a divorce," and that's not magic, Muggles has that as well. When he was five, their Rabbi had given him a book containing spells in Aramic, hoping Marvin'll attend a Jewish School of Wizardry located in Miami, where there is no Latin and no Christmas dinners, but Marvin doesn't remember, he doesn't have any words.

 

When Marvin was Eighteen his girlfriend was pregnant and he took a salad bowl of the high shelf and removed memories from his mind, one by one, as if cleansing of possible future silver hair, and by the time he was halfway through, he couldn't move his hands anymore. When Trina had found him, and screamed, and took him to the hospital, not loving her had cut deeper from the fact that he could barely remember her name. This is how he feels right now, sitting by his work desk – he couldn't preform magic if he tried – because he can't move his hands, but they're shaking, and he knows the next attack is coming, that someone is coming for him, that he's going to be collateral is some war of Humanity VS. Everything that Is not Normal. And he finally manages to lift his wand, and he's screaming.

 

He wakes up soaked – with sweat, with water. A pipe in Whizzer's ceiling blew up, and one in the wall. Marvin lifts himself up on his elbows, then changes his mind, sinks back into his pillow. His wand is on the nightstand, right next to him, but he can't be bothered. He and Whizzer are a wrong sort of pair, boarding an ark. This is the flood.

Or not. Whizzer's apartment is an assortment of materials held together by magic, except concrete is not meant to withstand this sort of abuse. He could not bare the weight of Marvin as well. He wishes he could blame Whizzer for this – you left me here to wake up alone, this is what you get. But Whizzer's not responsible for Marvin's bruises. Marvin is a Wizard who spews his magic like he's having a seizure, uncontrollable, no specific goal in mind. Whizzer, like the rest of the world, is just a collateral.

He lays there, unmoving, and considers drowning. Here – or perhaps at sea. He considers the ocean separating him from his parents, the red sea and how it was split into two so that Marvin's people will pass through it, walls of water towering above them like a forest, fish dead or dying at their feet. A wizard is not able to do that, Marvin doesn't think. But a wizard doesn't lay around, waiting for a miracle, either.

He sighs. Then forces himself to rise. He's soaking wet, but he didn’t even notice, until now. There's a shiver running down his spine. Marvin had always wanted to curl into someone's – his mother – a woman – Trina – until cold waves will cease. Men are different, in that regard, in their ethics of care, though he supposes that they are not lacking. Just Whizzer is.  Will he take care of Marvin in illness? Marvin isn't sure. He casts a water repellent spell upon himself, then, just in case.

He then stares at the leakage, water everywhere. The pipes must be beyond repair, lost in piles of wet, useless dust. He sighs, closes his eyes, opens them. He feels useless, too useless to even lift his arm, to even pronounce a spell. His wand feels heavy. Breakable. Flammable. As if it was nothing more than a goddamn stick Marvin is required to handle. As if he was a child who was given a piece of wood and told it was a sword. But Whizzer can't find him like this. "Glacius." He orders, a little too loudly. Then again, and again, and again, until it's too cold to breath, until the room is an icy lake that Marvin is too afraid to walk through.

It's possible that Whizzer will be forced to move.

 

He's not sure, when it comes down to it, why Charlotte likes him. Maybe she doesn't – that would make more sense, Marvin does have enough self-awareness to understand that. Maybe she only befriended him so he could be left aimless on her couch with nothing to do but read Audre Lorde. Maybe he's a cause. Except no, he's pretty sure she does like him. Cordelia has taken him in as if he was a stray – a closeted, semi-divorced, homosexual stray. And ever since, Marvin's sole role in to be Jewish, as well as making Charlotte feel like she's less of an asshole by comparison. There's a form of companionship, it's said, between the homosexuals and the lesbians. Charlotte, who's a doctor, who does not have even a drop of magical blood in her system, in her family tree, had told him once: "I might not be a witch, but I'm worthy of being burnt at the stake." Which, considering actual witches were rarely burnt at the stake, but actual homosexuals did, is fair enough.

She is where he runs off to, when he escapes Whizzer's wrath. It is a system: Work – run to Wife, Wife – escape to Whizzer, Boyfriend – go to lesbians, Child – nowhere to run, you are screwed. So it is with a heavy heart that he enters Charlotte's apartment and announces: "I flooded Whizzer's flat."

Charlotte, who's stabbing her fork at something that appears to be a beige blob decorated by small, dying carrots, raises an eyebrow at him, but does not seem in any way surprised.

"Well, it was only a matter of time," she solemnly tells him. "Marvin," she adds, shoving the dish under his nose, which seems unnecessary, "Do you know what that is?"

"It’s called Gefilte Fish." He frowns. "Why would 'Delia make Gefilte Fish?" He asks. Then, "What do you mean it was only a matter of time?"

Charlotte shrugs, thankfully taking all things fish related away from him. "Just that you are the kind of couple that breaks… stuff."

"Eloquent."

"Bite me. Your fights are numerus, vicious and reckless. You give little consideration to anyone's feelings but your own. Things break. I wish you luck."

"Agh." Marvin replies.

"Eloquent."

"Bite me." He settles down on the couch, where Bell Hooks is already waiting for him. "At least Whizzer never cooks Gefilte Fish."

Charlotte snorts. "You wish he'd cook you anything." Then, "I think she thinks it's gourmet."

"It is not." Marvin scoffs. "It's Jell-O. That is somehow fish. It's a torture technic for carrots. It's not _gourmet_."

"I'm the tortured one here."

"You could always tell her –"

"Oh please, as if you would."

Marvin sighs, contemplating his upcoming migraine. It's pretty much that time of day already. There is a cold wave working its way up Marvin's chest, mapping his lungs, blocking his throat, he's a frozen human being. Whizzer is the only person who's able to remind him what adrenaline feels like. He's hand is clenched around his wand, constantly. He is too good at silent spells. His mind is too scattered. He is still a danger, to this day.

"He'll be angry with me," Marvin slowly ascertains, eyes traveling across Charlotte's apartment.

"Isn't e always mad at you?" 

Marvin bites at his lower lip, catches himself, then stops. "Or he's just humoring me."

"By pretending to be angry with you?"

"Yes." He blurts out. "No, I mean –" he swallows. "By engaging with me."

Charlotte shakes her head. "You are fucked up." She sighs. "Look, he's not going to leave you."

Something in Marvin's chest constricts. A blood vessel. His heart. His lungs. He's a medical emergency waiting to happen, and Charlotte is not his kind of healer. He wishes he could spill the content of his head into a lake, watch the silver liquid of his thoughts sink into water, fused with water, gone.

He's torn out of his head when Charlotte punches him in the arm. "He has nowhere else to go thanks to you, right?" She raises her eyebrows at him. He wishes she'd enjoy irony less. He wishes she was nicer.

"Fuck you," he tells her. "I want to talk with your better half now."

"Yeah," she snorts. "You and me both." There's a ring on her finger, the wrong finger, and the way she stares at it sometimes – it's the most feminine thing Marvin had ever seen her do. He's so jealous of her, sometimes, he could actually cry.

"I didn't mean to destroy his entire flat." A breath. "And furniture." A pause. "His collection of photographs." Silence. "Everything he owns. Fuck. Shit."

Charlotte lays her palm on his shoulder. "I'm sure some of that is salvageable."

"I like his photographs." Marvin tells her, voice quiet.

Her hand tightens around him. "Well I hate my girlfriend's cooking, but does that perish in a flood? No. No justice in the world, pal."

And Marvin laughs, and he wishes he was her, black and Jewish and gay and brilliant, her entire miraculous existence, the magic of her that's entirely Muggle, that's nothing but her determination and her brain. The way she's loved so completely by a person who does not have to love her. He wants –

Fuck.

"I have to go," he tells her, voice tight, throat closed. He apparates away, like a coward, Bell Hooks still clutched in his hands.

 

 

     

He finds Whizzer waiting for him at his own apartment, because apparently there are no safe places anymore.

Whizzer raises an eyebrow at him, because Whizzer is excellent at silently expressing displeasure. Whizzer could probably bring Marvin to tears (to his knees) without uttering a single word. "Been hiding at your lesbian's, huh?"

Marvin raises an eyebrow right back. It's likely to be less impressive. "I like to think of them as our lesbians."

"They're not our pets."

Marvin snorts. "Please, if anything I'm their pet."

Whizzer's smile is thin, his eyes bright, but not in a good way. Whizzer's expressions are rarely good, and good is too often confused with 'pretty'. "So are they gonna pay for my flat?" he asks, voice neutral. "Or are you going to take responsibility for once?"

Marvin's hands are shaking, just slightly. He's not scared, so he's not sure why that's so. "I flooded your apartment while I was asleep," he offers.

Something in Whizzer's face twist. As if he was cheated out of something. As if he's in pain. His palms are clenched into fists by his sides. "Gosh, and they say the way to get things done around the house is to get a man in."

"I had no control over it," he counters. He's not pleading. He's not asking for mercy, just… pity. He asks only for shallow form of emotion. Just feel sorry for me, Whizzer, please. "And that place was a shit show, it wouldn't have happened in a normal flat –"

"It wouldn't have happened with a normal bed partner."   

Marvin shakes his head. He could say: I had a nightmare, but as an excuse – it feels weak, not something a grown up should bring up – like drinking Butterbeer instead of Fire Whiskey, or refusing to eat spicy food.

"I mean," Whizzer, ever the trouble chaser, goes on: "If you were jealous, you could have simply found me and cause a scene in front of the guy I was screwing, like any normal person would do."

Marvin frowns. His heart hammers in his chest. A part of him deflates, just slightly. "That doesn't sound normal," he interjects. He thinks of soap operas – jealous house wives throwing wine glasses into the faces of cheating husbands, furious men punching other men for taking liberties with –

Marvin doesn't feel like either of them. He mostly feels tired. Out of control. Sort of a loser. He settles for: "I wasn't feeling well."

Whizzer, who seems to realize that he's not getting anywhere, is louder as he accuses: "That's what you have a fucking shrink for, Marvin. Ruin his goddamn office. I need my apartment. I can't pay for any place better. I don't want to move anywhere else, and if this was some power trip of yours, I swear to God, you will never see me agai –"

"What," Marvin cuts in. "Some sort of – what?"

Whizzer's eyeroll is very forceful indeed. "You know," he bites out. "So that I'd have to move in?"   

There's the headache coming. Here it is. Could have been, subconsciously, what Marvin was doing? Probably, in the sense that Marvin's mind is a vast, mildly depressing, overly pretentious place, that Marvin had vowed to never explore. Who knows what it does while Marvin is asleep, really. Who knows what it wants, what it loves. "I was asleep." He repeats. A part of him, Marvin is horrified to learn, is fighting an instinct to call his mother and have her come and explain the situation for him. "I wasn't consciously doing anything, I wouldn't destroy a house –" he stops.

Whizzer eyes Marvin wearily, the way he often does, as if wondering what he'd got himself into. "Well, okay." He concedes, which is how Marvin knows he's in trouble. "Are you going to apologize, then?" He adds, "You know, for wrecking the place where I used to live along with the rest of my stuff?"

Marvin opens and closes his mouth. "It wasn't my fault."

Whizzer's however, is not impressed by Marvin's lack of _Mens rea_ , and Marvin forgets, sometimes – that Whizzer has real emotion, that he's more than sex-drive and exasperation and reasons to gloat. That he's human, and any human cares – about something. That you can't live in the same glass house and keep throwing stones. "It's possible to still be sorry," Whizzer informs him reasonably. "Even if it wasn't, technically, your fault." The last line is uttered with too much skepticism for Marvin's taste, but what can you do.

"That's true," Marvin concedes. He should just do it, really. Like sex with his wife. It's better to just get on with it. "I'm –" he starts. "This hasn't happened to me in a while, you know."

Whizzer snorts, then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like: "Ex-Demon-chid."  

"I'm sorry," he tells him, eventually, dace carefully schooled to – he's not sure, really. "That my issues affected you." His body feels tightly wound, his breath shallow. Tell people enough about yourself, and you'll have nowhere to run.  That's the problem. It was Whizzer who told him that. "I will pay for everything, of course."

Whizzer stares him down, and then approaches, quick, decisive steps, face unreadable. "Excuse me?"

"I said I'll pay for the damages." He repeats. Their only centimeters apart, Whizzer and him, and Marvin wants, God, he wants Whizzer to love him, it's killing him that he may not, it's killing him, to have his heart retroactively broken.

"Fuck that," Whizzer tells him then, smile playing at the edge of his mouth, though his tone is mildly aggressive. "I'm moving in."

"Oh," is what Marvin is saying. It's all he can think of, really. Oh.

"Say you're happy," Whizzer orders. It's killing Marvin, that he's not kissing him, right now.

 "I'm happy," he repeats, obediently. He's not sure that he is – but he's feeling something, for sure, and he wasn't sorry, either.

Whizzer rolls his eyes at him, but then they're kissing, and Marvin curls his palm in Whizzer's T-shirt, Whizzer tangles his fingers in Marvin's hair, and it feels like a real thing, right then, a memory he cannot tear away from the basement of his mind.


End file.
